


Human No More

by bazemayonnaise



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas Fluff, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21652099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bazemayonnaise/pseuds/bazemayonnaise
Summary: Javert had not 'entertained' before, let alone for an old lesbian couple, sister and sister-in-law to the Bishop who had saved his faux-husband's life.Or, Javert becomes a dad, makes some friends and falls in love.
Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent & Javert, Cosette Fauchelevent & Jean Valjean, Javert/Jean Valjean, Magloire/Baptistine Myriel
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39
Collections: Les Mis Holiday Exchange (2019)





	Human No More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkhorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkhorse/gifts).



> cw: eating disorder mention, drowning mention, PTSD mention, talk of child abuse, anxiety attacks, suicide mention

Javert had been given two options. He had picked the one that had seemed the obvious choice at the time; the choice with less anxiety, less chaos, less responsibility. 

Oh what a fool he had been. He should have known, given Valjean’s increasingly worried ‘are you sure this is the best course of action’s and ‘I really don’t mind’s. Javert had thought it had all been a ploy, a trap set by Valjean to foster some one-on-one alone time between Javert and Cosette, but… Now he could see that Valjean knew what hell this would be. 

Option 1: stay at home to look after Cosette.

Option 2: go to the shopping centre and buy Winter Holiday gifts from Valjean’s pre-prepared list.

Javert clutched his phone to his chest, barely a meter into the first store. He typically avoided shopping centres on the best of days (he’d done enough pushing through crowds to chase shoe thieves to last a lifetime), but he hadn’t done a Holiday Shop, not since his childhood, and he remembered the occasion being far more sombre than the assault to his senses he was currently undergoing. 

Holiday music was blaring from not just the shop’s tannoy but the shopping centre’s, and the neighbouring shops’. The television screens decorating each wall were blasting adverts for children's games, part-timers dressed as elves were shouting deals across the shop floor, a small group of carollers were packed on a small stage jingling bells and assorted novelty holiday instruments and children… there were children everywhere. 

Children screaming, children laughing, children being pulled about by parents who looked like death incarnate. Javert had already stopped attempting to avoid being hit by them, it seemed like no matter how deftly he moved out of one family’s way, another one would barge into him from the opposite direction. 

He let himself be taken by the crowd, head spinning as he tried to locate himself, eyes glancing from signs that directed from puzzles to action figures to doll houses. He immediately regretted not memorising the list Valjean had given him, not daring to glance at his phone and risk it getting swept to the floor and crushed underfoot. 

It was from this hellish torment that he felt himself stilled, manhandled into a corner free from shoving. Javert pressed himself against the wall of the alcove he had been directed to and took a moment to breathe before looking for his saviour. Part of him - the part of him that was nearly always right - expected to find Valjean. This part of him was surprised as he found he was staring at a stranger. 

The person before him was dressed in a Bishop’s costume, almost the full garb sans ostentatious hat. On any other day Javert might have found the cosplay a rather strange one, but having just passed a several dozen people dressed as Santa, he was rather desensitised. 

The person was short and round, in their eighties at his best guess, black skin wrinkled in a wide and obviously well-used grin, pure white afro cut short but still visible under a cap. They even smelled sweet, of coconut oil and cloves. “I know what you’re thinking. What a heavenly miracle; to have been snatched from the crowd by an angelic vision of a woman!”

Javert could only press himself so far back against the wall. Her grin widened. 

“If you’ll please find some goodness in your heart, dear stranger, I ask for a favour in return.”

“I— I’m,” Javert felt any sense of authority he’d ever owned simply melt away, his brain stuttering to start. “My husband-”

“You see, good stranger,” the elderly lady continued, “I am but a short angel and the shelves here really are not built for the likes of me.”

Javert’s brain paused, restarted, and finally he felt like he had caught up with the conversation. “You need someone to get you something from the top shelf?”

“Quite a few somethings, I have to warn you.” 

Javert squirmed, eyes scanning the crowd for one of the nearby elves-come-staff. They were all occupied, or seemed to be miles away. Javert thought about his list, how even alone it would have taken him hours longer than he’d want to complete it… then he thought about Valjean. Valjean would not be happier that Javert had completed the task faster because he had let this old woman go about her business unaided. 

Javert sighed, then actively untensed himself, aware now of how such a sigh, accompanied by his traditional look of dejection could typically scare those around him. When he nodded, he noted that this woman did not seem to be masking any negative thoughts about him. She seemed not to have noticed his reluctance or, if she had, did not seem to mind it. 

“Would you mind if I quickly checked my shopping list?” Javert asked, knowing that space would be a commodity for the next few hours. 

“Of course! You reach the top shelves for me, and I’ll part the crowds for you.”

“That’s a little -” Javert bit down his reply. 

“Blasphemous?” the woman continued anyway, and Javert gave his half-nod, half-shrug, not wanting to offend. Several years ago, he would never have let his retorts run free, but his proximity to Valjean had loosened his tongue, and this woman seemed to have a humour very similar to Jean’s. 

“I figure, since God created us in Her image, she must understand my sense of humour.”

She really was Valjean’s twin. Javert occupied himself with looking at his shopping list, using it as an excuse not to have to think of a reply. It was one thing not engaging with Valjean’s nonsense and quite another not engaging with hers.

“What pronouns do you use?”

Javert’s brain paused in its game of memorising. “He, him.”

“And are you comfortable with my using ‘brother’ to refer to you?”

“... Sure.”

“I can use an alternative?”

“No, it’s just- you reminded me of someone. I’m not used to...” Javert stopped. He didn’t need to explain himself to this person, but he continued in his head, _casual camaraderie._ There was a gap in the sound and Javert realised this was were traditional social cues came in. “And you?”

“She, her.”

“‘Sister’?”

“Lord no, my days of being a Sister are far behind me.” The woman laughed at her own joke. “My name is Myriel.” 

“Right.” Feeling like he’d maybe made the second mistake of the day by agreeing to this Myriel’s terms, Javert locked his phone. “What was it you wanted?”

Myriel hadn’t been lying when she said she’d been after quite a few items. Somehow, they also all happened to be top-shelf items, which meant she got her money’s worth of Javert’s assistance as they strode through the shop, side-by-side, trolleys gradually filling up. 

She had been right though, about parting the crowds. Even if, on second glance, most people dismissed the Bishop’s outfit as fancy dress, there was something about seeing the resplendent whites and purples that made people’s instinctive bow to authority kick in. It was like trailing the Mayor Madeleine all over again - that small town mentality of looking at someone and knowing immediately who they were and whether you needed to move out of their way. 

It didn’t foster fond memories for Javert, but he tamped them down. If he’d been as domesticated as a wolf in a trap then, he was a certified puppy now and he wasn’t going to let bad memories ruin what was supposed to be a good thing: his and Valjean’s first official holiday season with Cosette as their - and here even his internal voice hesitated - child. 

Javert wanted to say he felt warmth at the thought, but really he felt dread. This responsibility, there was no way on God’s green earth that he was ready for it. 

He would be lying if he said he hadn’t expected the day to come - he had in fact assumed that it would arrive sooner; since the day Valjean and his bizarre penchant for sticking avidly to some rules but not others had found it would make the adoption process easier should Cosette be going into a family with two parents. Javert had made it very clear that, as he never had any plans to marry regardless, he would offer up the rouse at Valjean’s convenience. 

This is the husband to whom Javert had referred, and it was not the first time it had offered an easy escape from conversation. People were less likely to ask questions for one, and he had yet to find a single person willing to probe him. 

“So your husband,” Myriel said, sounding for all the world like she was continuing a conversation they had been having for months, “I don’t like to think ill of people I’ve not met, but he abandoned you to the children’s’ presents all on your own?”

Of course today would be the day the exception to the rule appeared. 

“He had other business.” 

“Mmm,” Myriel said, obvious from her tone that she was both the kind of person who was curious but who would not dwell where she was not wanted. 

“How many do you have?”

“Husbands?”

“Children.”

Javert hated that infuriating smile — again, the twin of Valjean’s. Patient, humourous, absolutely aware that they could and would be an absolute shit for kicks. “How many do you have?” Javert asked, knowing full well that petulance was not becoming. 

“The children of God are all my children.”

Ah, so they were playing that game. Fine, Javert could admit her reply was fair. “One.” His reply seemed to change something on her face and, worried, Javert couldn’t help an accusational “What?”

“Oh, no, my apologies, it’s just your list was so long I assumed… but that was very…” Myriel trailed off, obviously not sure where she herself had been going. 

Again, it was a fair point. Barely three years ago Javert would have thought the same. Some rich old man spoiling his brat with a present list longer than could fit on a single page of A4? Hell, even now it struck him as incredibly… privileged. Because it was. Sure, it wasn’t his money he was spending, and sure, it wasn’t like Valjean hoarded his wealth, but they were well-off. Valjean had a seperate account for Cosette’s needs. He never wanted to see Cosette suffer, and to do that he did not give everything away. They would never have nothing. That security, that ability to give and yet to have a list of presents this long, that was privilege.

Javert and Valjean were incredibly lucky to be able to give their child a childhood that neither of them had had. Javert looked down at his fingers; work-weary and scarred, not bone-thin for the first time in his life - then he caught the thought. _‘Their child_ ’. Dear God he was deeper than expected. 

The thought occurred that he could narrate these thoughts to this woman, but what would be the point? To assuage his guilt? To ‘prove’ something to her? 

There was a silence in the air now, and Javert knew that to mean that she wouldn’t tell him about her own children unless prompted so, hoping for a distraction he asked a half-hearted “and you?”

“Oh,” she cringed, seeming to know the effect of her next words before she spoke them, “We have a very generous donor at the church who asks us to buy what he calls ‘stocking-fillers’ for families who can’t afford them. By stocking-fillers what he truly means is that he asks each family for a list of what they might ask Santa for, for items they would usually be penalised for owning, or what they simply need, and he buys them. Each and every item on the list. Usually he prefers we buy the items from local shops, but alas the amount of orders can’t always be accommodated, so it’s my enviable task to do the last of the sourcing when the donor’s money does run low. Unfortunately that sometimes means keeping receipts separate, since we would be loathe to ask for more, if you understand my meaning.” 

Myriel had spent this speech with her eyes on the toy she was holding, a plush toy from one of the latest Disney films, scrutinising it as if she might find some divine truth within its fur. Then, giving it one loving stroke across its belly, she placed it with the others in her trolley. 

Javert knew what expression Myriel had been expecting from him: middle-class guilt, of seeing a trolley as filled as his for one child beside a trolley filled with presents for the needy… but that is not what she got. 

Old woman Myriel was no festive cosplayer, she was the Bishop Bienvenue. Jean Valjean’s Bishop. The sweet woman Javert had never met, but on whom Valjean doted. Unearthed from Digne in her twilight years through the magic of the internet, Valjean would make a trip down to see her every few months. He said it was to give his blessings, but looking at her now, Javert wondered whether Valjean was making the most of what time they all had left on Earth. Or, scratching that, how much of it was Valjean’s genuine pleasure to spend time with her. 

This woman was the reason Javert had had to put up with a lot of bullshit, and it made him smile. Not his terrific, more-beast-than-man smile, but one more recently added to his repertoire. Valjean called it soft, Cosette called it his ‘big smile’, Javert of half a decade ago would have called it weak. Now he liked to think of it as true. 

Because this woman had turned Jean Valjean into a saint, Javert had been pulled from the Seine. He had thought he was plunging headfirst into hell, only to have been baptised and had re-emerged, reformed - no, _reforming_ \- in Valjean’s arms. 

Javert wondered whether this woman was aware that she had saved if not two, then hundreds of lives. Whether she knew, and was pleased with her work, or whether this knowledge rolled off of her like water off a duck, immune to her positive consequences and working hard regardless. Because Javert could see that she worked hard; that even now, in her nineties, she was the one to go to the shops for presents. Part of her saintly actions of the day would have to be killing her pride, or else she’d never get anything else done!

There was a _do you know_ on the tip of his tongue, but he considered the question. What would it matter if she did know how her actions affected other people's lives? Whether her motive was to do unbridled good or to do good to save her soul from past sins, she still performed the actions, still put that goodness out into the world, worked hard to make it a better place. Most of society is judged not on what you do but what people think you do — so to go above and beyond without anyone realising, that was likely what constituted saintliness. 

Javert fished his phone from his pocket, satisfaction at clicking pieces of a puzzle together soothing his soul. “My list is looking about done, how about yours?”

Myriel looked at her scratchy notes on her scrap of lined paper, giving it a scan for missing items, but seemed satisfied. “All is good here! How’s about we face that queue, huh?” 

Myriel bustled off towards the till, the formidable line of people stretching halfway around the shop. 

“This donor of yours,” Javert said, resting his forearms against the trolley bar. He was attempting at ‘casual’, but God only knew whether he was actually just conveying that he had never ‘lounged’ a day in his life. “What sort of person is he?”

When a moment came and passed and Myriel remained silent, Javert looked over to find her face in contemplation. Then, like the sun bursting through clouds, she grinned over at him. “He’s a funny boy. A beautiful soul, but sometimes caught up in such serious things.” Here she paused again to think. “I think, recently, he’s had some good news.”

“How do you figure that?”

“He looked happy.”

“He’s never looked happy to you?”

“Oh sure he’s looked happy. Said he was happy, probably even thought he was happy, but not like this. Not true happiness. Contentment, like he was living now, today, not in the past, not for some multitude of futures. Happy to be where he was.” 

Javert suddenly felt as if he had pulled the lever on a trap door under his own feet, like his stomach was plummeting deeper and deeper below the earth. “Ah.” That was the news about Cosette, of course, but still-

“If you want to hear this old woman’s gossip, I think he’s met someone.”

Javert swallowed. “Oh?” His voice sounded tight, even to his own ears.

“Won’t stop going on about him every time he visits. How he’s done some wrong, done some harm, but that they’re working through it, how this person is learning. Growing.”

“He told all this to you?”

“In dribs and drabs. Never telling me the person’s name, and definitely not in confession. Just - I suppose as a friend, looking for advice.”

Javert shuffled further along in the queue, holding his shovel and preparing to dig himself deeper into this hole. “What advice did you give him?”

“That anyone willing to ‘fess their mistakes sounds like a good person indeed, and that if he really is as handsome as this donor makes him seem, he should marry him on the spot! Life’s too short to worry about humming or hah-ing over propriety. In my day, you were married at 17 and that was that!”

“That’s a very… traditional standpoint.”

“I can’t be ‘God is a black woman’ this and ‘Jesus loved sex workers’ that all the time. Or rather, I could, but then how would I bully my middle-aged following to beget children? I’m an old woman! I want my congregation to be blessed with bright-eyed babies for me to coo over. You have to forgive me my one sin.”

The more Javert talked to this woman, the less he understood her. Thankfully they had rounded the corner and they were next. As he helped Myriel load her goods onto the conveyor belt, he made a show of taking out his phone and groaning a “Oh no, how could I have forgotten?” He looked around, acted fretful, then touched Myriel’s arm. “If I looked after your goods, would you mind grabbing something I’ve forgotten? I’ll bag your purchases while I wait?”

Myriel nodded, obedient, and was off like the wind, plowing her way through the crowd like a shark through a shoal of fish. As soon as she was gone, Javert turned to the cashier, produced his card and paid for the Bishop’s goods. 

When Myriel had emerged from the crowd and triumphantly placed a Barbie on Javert’s pile, it only took her a moment to understand what had happened. She looked between Javert, packing up his own presents now and the bags in Myriel’s trolley and her upbeat energy shifted into one Javert could only really name as being ‘Bishop-like’. 

She helped him pack Cosette’s presents, watched him pay (this time with Valjean’s card), and they wheeled their trollies out together. 

Javert accompanied Myriel to her car and helped her load her presents into her boot, the pair remaining in silence until he’d closed it for her, and watched as she climbed into the driver’s seat. “This has been much appreciated, brother.” 

“Yes, the feeling has been mutual.” Javert extended a hand, which Myriel shook, both of her small, warm hands enclosed around his own. 

_If Valjean asks - when Valjean doesn’t ask - I would like it if you were to -_

Javert licked his lips, and he lifted his eyes, nearly - but not quite - asking for some sort of diving guidance. “If you’re available, you should join us for Christmas day. I’m sure Valjean would be overjoyed.”

The hands around his own clenched slightly, and when he looked back, her face was bright with understanding. “His _husband_!”

Javert had briefly wondered what he might do should this woman be fazed at his lie by omission, having spent the better part of the morning gleaming information about Valjean off of her, but this didn’t look as if it were going to be a problem. 

Though, as free-wheeling as this old woman was, Javert wasn’t entirely sure how she would take ‘marriage of convenience’, so he kept his mouth shut on that. “And you could meet Cosette, too. I think she would like that, to meet her grandmother.”

If the Bishop had looked sunny before, she was positively luminescent now. 

“I’m sure, as a Bishop, you have many other duties, but-”

“I’ll be there. That foolish boy Jean, not telling me he had a husband!”

Javert had spent his life despising people who ended their sentences as questions, criticising their lack of foresight, their not knowing where they were going or what they wanted, but now he found himself flounder. “It was recent, and sudden?” He felt he needed to protect Valjean’s honour, especially before this woman Valjean so adored. 

“And Cosette, too, so he managed to adopt her. That really is excellent news. Yes, I would love to join the three of you. Would you mind if I were to bring my sister and her partner?” 

And, for the first time in his life, the words “the more the merrier” came from his mouth, and he meant the words in their sincerest meaning. 

They exchanged numbers and niceties until Javert could extract himself from her, and he waved her off as she drove out of the car park. _Welcome_. He had felt welcome beside her, welcome in her space, in the building… in society. It was truly terrifying. 

Once he was alone, he felt overcome with a satisfied pleasure; his second task today had been to work out what in hell Jean Valjean, rich but spartan, could want — or that Javert could give. This was to make for an excellent present, he just had to keep the secret for a week.

-

Javert to Jean Valjean [I will be returning imminently. Should I enter through the back door so that Cosette does not see the bags?]

jvj to jav [she’s napping, u can come thru front :)]

\- 

Javert and Jean Valjean ferried the four large bags from the car as quietly as possible, taking care not to wake the sleeping child on the sofa. 

As they were doing it in silence, Valjean felt that the looks he was stealing of Javert were far more obvious than usual, but he couldn’t help but to check. Javert had performed a task Valjean knew he would hate, had come back more than two hours later than planned, and yet the man looked… more calm than he had on leaving. 

Valjean could only assume that this was a new form of rage he had yet to see from Javert, or perhaps some sort of symptom of PTSD? Valjean was more careful than usual with his movements, taking care to act slowly, to make no sudden sounds or movements as they wrapped the presents together.

Cross-legged, in comfortable clothing, warm socks on, sat on Valjean’s bedroom floor, passing the scissors and tape between them… Valjean allowed himself the selfish thought that this was nice, before critisising himself. How could he allow himself the luxury of calm when Javert was obviously so worked up?

So worked up, in fact, that he hadn’t even chosen to rant at Valjean, which was Javert’s favoured method of stress relief; which tipped the scale in favour of it being Javert’s renewed hatred of Valjean.

Valjean felt his heart pang at that. He knew, practically, that this marriage was a ruse, that Javert had only accepted it out of guilt, out of a sense of responsibility to make right his past actions, and yet Valjean had hoped that it might have made them closer as friends; as brothers with sinful pasts if not… if not as something more, perhaps.

Valjean had spent his life alone, hating. The second he had experienced love: pure, unadolterated adoration from Cosette, it had unleashed something within him, a door to a jail cell had been unlocked. He longed, now, to touch — to hug, to be hugged, to feel human connection. He no longer felt fuelled by hatred, and with this energy gone, he needed something as a replacement. Perhaps it was the proximity, the accessibility, but he wanted, deeply, for Javert to feel the same. He was not sure whether this was love; platonic, erotic, romantic, aromantic, he would likely feel sated by any.

He had hoped to test the waters this holiday season. With a sense of family overtaking the house, he hoped familial tenderness might rear its head, and he could capitalise on this to have difficult - nay - impossible conversations with Javert. 

Alas, this was becoming a distant dream. 

Valjean wallowed in it as they wrapped, all the while chiding himself. Javert might not be ready. Valjean had had an advance of several years to process his feelings, it was unfair to expect Javert to have done the same in far fewer. And, even if he had, it was completely unfair to expect Javert to resign himself to the first people he had been assigned. Just because Valjean had been there through javert’s initial healing process, there was nothing to stop Javert from desiring more — things Valjean had not — friends, a lover, a community. 

In fact, the only thing stopping Javert was Valjean.

-

Javert thought that the ruse was going very nicely. Valjean had been more enraptured by Cosette than usual, likely because of his emotions about the adoption, and had left Javert almost to his own devises. This allowed Javert free reign in organising the Bisop’s arrival with her sister and her sister’s partner, Magloire. 

The realisation that the sister was in a queer relationship went some way in assuaging some of Javert fears. It was not so much that he assumed Valjean’s mentor and idol could or would be bigots, but there was one thing talking of ideal worlds and quite another upholding those words. 

There was a moment where Javert realised that at some point, he would have to spill the beans in order for Jean Valjean to cook enough food for double the guests - but he needn’t have worried. When Valjean returned from the grocery shop it was clear that there was no understanding of scale, and that Valjean was prepared to cook for upwards of twelve. 

There was something about a family of three who had once starved that really made feast times a feast. 

Since neither Javert nor Valjean had spent very much time in kitchens making elaborate holiday feasts for guests, they had promised a week’s worth of evenings together on the sofa in the lead up to the event, watching the cooking channel on the TV. 

Their first evening was a simple affair; Valjean had made the family a simple pasta meal, and after feeding Cosette and setting her up in her play pen, they had sat in companionable silence, watching a woman tell them her top tips in Turkey basting.

Javert had had to get up at one point to find his notepad; he hadn’t expected to actually learn anything from the experience, was more doing it to humour Valjean, but he found some of the woman’s advice could likely come in handy later in his life. 

He had returned to find Valjean had scooted further into his corner of the sofa, pasta abandoned, and Javert chalked it up to the man also finding this woman’s tips incredibly helpful. 

The second evening, Cosette had demanded hamburgers, made ‘the Javert way’. This referred to the fact that Javert had failed quite spectacularly to flip the patties without making beef crumble, and so he had made what he had seen some Japanese YouTube cook had made and made it ‘sloppy’; i.e. poured a load of sauce on top and served it over the buns as a sort of meat-sauce. 

It made for messy eating, and to prevent an evening spent trying to extract reddy-brown sauce from their cream sofa, Javert kept his back straight, a napkin protecting the splash zone. Cosette ate at her plastic table, having recently enjoyed a picture book that evangelized about a prince with impeccable table manners. Javert still found it odd that she would pay so much attention to this prince's penchant for correcting which fork to use without questioning that he was a talking rabbit, but he supposed he wasn't quite the book's target market. 

Javert kept a half eye trained on Valjean through the meal. The man barely ever made a mess he wouldn't gladly clean, but as Javert watched, he noted the man seemed… distant. Checked out. More likely to spill sauce, Javert's mouth wanted to say, but his brain kicked into gear. 

No, no - curtail instinctual reactions. What's the real problem here? That Valjean has a haunted look to him. Javert glanced at Cosette, found her happy and chattering to herself. He thought about his day - no huge alarm bells went off about his behaviour; in fact he and Valjean had barely talked that evening. Had barely talked for several days, really, not about anything of substance. 

Hm. This would take further investigation. 

-

If Valjean's resolve had almost crumbled the first few days into his endeavour to give Javert his space, (and thus his freedom), it was bulging at the seams now. 

It seemed like every time Valjean managed to display how independent he could be, how he'd be able to cope as a single father, how he'd survive perfectly fine without Javert's interference, Valjean messed up and it swung the complete other way. 

Valjean had been planning a daytrip with Cosette - just himself and Cosette - no Javert necessary - to the beach, perhaps, or to the zoo, when he had come back to the world and realised Javert was silently mopping a red stain from the arm of the sofa Valjean was closest to. Valjean had looked down at his lap, and it was only then that he had realised the bowl there… he looked back at the stain, to Javert holding a fork… in daydreaming, Valjean had catapulted his fork from his bowl, hadn't realised, and Javert had begun cleaning the mess in silence.

Worryingly silently in fact; like he had hoped to finish his task before Valjean had woken from his stupor. Valjean's hand jolted without his consciously meaning to, hand gripping Javert's wrist to still him. The fork clattered to the floor. Valjean looked between it and the stain. He did not dare meet Javert's eyes. 

"Baba?" 

Cosette's sweet voice cut through Valjean's haze, and he released Javert's wrist as if he had been caught with a stolen apple. 

"Uh-oh," Cosette said in her 'naughty' voice, "Baba made a big mess!" She giggled at her faux chastisement, gaining a lot of joy at mimicking her adults, before she scampered out of the room. 

"Javert-"

"Are you okay, Jean?" 

This, this made Valjean meet Javert's eye. It blindsided him. It sounded like, and here he gave a silent apology to Javert, genuine compassion. Compassion for one you cared for, respected. Respected as a human, not as an authority, not as Javert had with Madeleine. 

It hurt. It hurt more than the idea that Javert had no interest in Valjean - it hurt that Javert likely now did think of Valjean as a friend and yet still he would leave Valjean, abandon him in the dark, would head towards light, freedom, change, not turning back, not holding out his hand for Valjean. 

"Here we go!" Cosette was beside them again, holding out her face towel and sippy cup, lightly splashing her water to dampen the towel. "Just gotta make it all wet to lift the stain!" 

Valjean felt freshly stabbed: even his Cosette had adopted Javert-isms, was speaking in his tone, his words, molding her small mouth so her knowledge came out sure and solid and … Javert. 

"Very good," Javert was saying, and Valjean could see Javert holding himself back from telling her she was doing it wrong, making it worse, the water diluting the tomato so it spread further. He watched Javert - _that Javert -_ hold his small girl back as he sprayed chemicals on the arm of the chair, making sure she didn't breathe any in, that none of it got on her skin. 

It made him think, maybe that he could hurt Javert back. That he could prevent Javert from seeing Cosette should he leave - 

And then felt immense, deep guilt. What a thought! Unpleasant, dark, it clawed at his insides, made him feel dirty, tainted. That he was poisoning the very air these two before him were breathing. 

Valjean stood abruptly, bowl on his lap clattering loudly to the floor. He ignored it, could not think about it, and left the room. He had to get away. From them, from ruining them - 

-

Javert heard Valjean return home early the next morning - so early he supposed to many it was still technically night. With half three being a time he'd spent many days greeting during his time as a cop, and now as a father, he wasn't so much physically exhausted as mentally. 

He had no lists of babysitters to trust, no family member to call upon, had not cased the neighbours, could not leave Cosette in the care of those he did not trust - and so he could not follow Valjean. He had briefly considered contacting one of the members of the department he had left, but supposed Valjean would not take too well to the idea that Javert had immediately phoned for a police chase the moment Valjean bounced. 

Bounced… is that what Valjean had done? 

Javert considered it. Had Valjean gone through all this trouble - failed to save Fantine, recused Cosette, rescued Javert - with the idea that once Javert had been saddled with the girl, Valjean could once again flee into oblivion, no hyper-passionate policeman on his tail? 

The thought made Javert sick. Sick at himself, sick to his very core. Valjean had given up so much of himself for Javert and still Javert could not rid himself of this paranoia? could not just - 

Javert bit his tongue. 

Sometimes, he told himself, people come under stress. Valjean has had a life of trauma. Javert knew a lot of it, knew the broad strokes of the distant past and many details of the recent, but he did not know all of it. Did not know what Valjean's triggers might be. Valjean had needed space. He trusted Javert to care for Cosette in his absence. That was a show of absolute trust. 

Javert had bathed the girl, had readied her for bed. Had soothed her questions about _Baba_ with reassurances that he had just gone out for a moment, had remembered something very very important he had to do. Javert had consoled her, assuring Cosette that it was not her fault that _Baba_ had left, that he was not mad at her for making the stain bigger. 

Eventually the girl had settled down enough that she had drifted asleep, thankfully exhausted from the emotional evening, not requiring Javert to do voices through a story.

Javert had set the child monitor beside him at the kitchen table, had lain his mobile next to it, and had waited. At ten, he had turned the TV on low, not watching it but calmed by its chattering. At midnight he had checked in on Cosette, still sleeping. At two, he decided he could wait in his bedroom. At three thirty, Valjean had snuck in. He was as quiet as a thief, which is perhaps not quiet enough for a police officer. 

Javert listened to Valjean perform his bedtime ritual through the wall they shared - brushing his teeth in his ensuite bathroom, washing his face, getting changed, the quiet of him praying, the creak of his bed, the switch of the bedside lamp turning off. He was silent before the clock on Javert's own bedside table struck 4. 

Javert wiped a hand against his face. He was relieved that Valjean had returned. Angry at himself for not believing that he would. Worried about what state Valjean might be in. Sad that Valjean had not thought to text him a single placation. In his restlessness, he needed to walk. He glanced at the monitor. It did not sound like Cosette had been disturbed by Valjean's entry, but it would not hurt to check. 

He kept his footfalls quiet - not so quiet he was masking them as he knew what anxiety that gave Valjean - and poked his head around Cosette's door. 

She was sat up, cradling her doll Catherine to her chest. Javert felt a stab, immediately drawn closer to the girl, softly shutting the door behind him. 

"Trouble sleeping?" 

Cosette shook her head, shrugging slightly. She looked recently woken-up, which was a relief; she had not spent the entire evening in fear alone. 

"Nightmare?" 

Another shake-shrug. 

Javert approached, fearful. He had no idea what on God's green earth he was meant to do now. Consoling a child, woken up by her traumas? Javert could barely navigate his own, barely kept himself afloat! now he was expected to fix this small thing, this innocent who had seen so much pain? What could he possibly say to her to make her calm down? What could they have in common? What did they share? He had no way to read this child, to know what she was thinking! It was impossible to think he could care for her without Jean, without any sort of help - To think that Valjean might leave him alone with her! To think that Valjean might one day leave him, that they might part ways? Unthinkable! Javert -

Javert was struck by a thought that threatened to topple him. Javert had no previous experience with the thought, had never had the emotion shone at him and so never thought to develop the emotion himself.

Javert loved this child, this daughter. 

Javert felt love for Valjean. 

Javert cared about this family. _His family_. 

Javert sat on the floor beside the head of Cosette's bed, feeling like perhaps his legs might fail him. Him, Javert, for - for Valjean? As a man, as a… husband? 

Javert shook himself. This was not the time for such a revelation. He had a daughter to care for. No, he was not experienced, no he had no course of action planned and reviewed. What he had, what he had to tell himself he had, was a new understanding of what compassion was. 

"Would you like to talk about it?" he asked. 

Cosette shrugged again. 

"Would you like to be left alone?"

A definitive shake no. 

"Would you prefer the company of Baba more than me?" 

A less definitive no, but a shake nonetheless. 

"Baba came home?" 

"Mmhm, all safe and sound." Javert would check in on the man before Cosette saw him. If he looked like he'd thrown himself at a brick wall, had found himself a revolution to get shot in, Javert would make some excuse so Cosette would not see him. A repressed memory of his father at the breakfast table, bloody, bruised, already pouring whiskey in his mug, "only pain relief I need"... it was funny, Javert probably couldn't have pointed the man out in a line-up, but he could probably hear that phrase from a mile out and know his deadbeat dad from a million others. Finding a fight just to remind himself that he was alive, Javert would not allow that behaviour in front of Cosette. 

"Do you think maybe you'd like a hot drink? I might not be able to make your Baba's got chocolate, but maybe some milk and honey?" 

Cosette considered this with her child's seriousness, mouth scrunched and eyebrows bunching. Without nodding, she pulled back her covers, took Catherine’s hand with one hand, Javert’s hand with her other, and she guided them downstairs. “Shh,” she told Catherine, “Baba’s sleeping.”

It wasn’t a particularly taxing recipe, nor did it have any sharp edges that could wound the child, so Javert pulled the girl up onto the counter so that she could spoon herself some honey from the jar, helped her lift the carton of milk to the mug, let her press the buttons on the microwave to set the timer. 

“Papa?”

Javert looked behind him, to where he assumed Valjean was. Finding the doorway empty, he looked back at Cosette. “He’s sleeping. Don’t worry, he’s safe.”

Cosette shook her head. “No, not Bàba” she said, clearly enunciating her words so it was clear that she was pronouncing it in the Mandarin she had received it in, “Papa.” Here Cosette pointed. 

She pointed directly at Javert. Unequivocally. Javert still turned, just in case. Still no-one. 

“Papa and Bàba are married.”

“Yes.”

“And Bàba is my Bàba.”

“Yes.”

“So Papa can be Papa. Does Papa want that?”

Cosette might well have asked whether Javert had dined with the talking Prince rabbit that evening, so incomprehensible was the question. 

“I-” Javert stammered, “I don’t-”

“Come, Cosette.” 

This time Javert really did startle, turning to see the looked-for bulk of Valjean in the doorway. He was in his sleep clothes, and even shaded in the dark as he was, Javert could not pick out any cuts, scrapes or bruises. “You are keeping monsieur Javert awake.”

“Monsieur?” Javert repeated, cut over by Cosette’s excited “Bàba!”

Javert had not been referred to as ‘monsieur’ for an age, not since becoming Inspector, and certainly not by Valjean. 

“Bàba, look, Papa and I have made milk and honey together. If you can't sleep, Javert and I will make you one!”

“Cosette, dear, see how it makes monsieur Javert uncomfortable for you to call him that, you should ask before-”

“No, I -”

“Javert, you don’t need to pretend-”

“I’m not pretending-”

“She is a child, she’ll forget soon enough-”

“No, Jean, it’s not-”

“Time for bed I think, huh Cosette?” Valjean continued to ignore Javert’s protestations as he lifted Cosette up into his arms, the little girl protesting as he did so. 

_Ding!_

The three of them startled at the sound of the microwave, loud in the early morning silence. 

Javert, closest to it, turned and removed the mug from the microwave. He used a teaspoon to give it a stir, tested the temperature against his skin, then approached Cosette. He did not drop Valjean's eye as he did so. A step before Javert reached them, Valjean put Cosette down on the ground. She took the mug from Javert, looked between her two parents and, sensing the discomfort, raised the mug to Valjean. 

"You should drink. Papa - Mmmsr Javert made it and it makes you feel calm." 

"He made it for you, little one." 

"We can share, it's okay. There's a lot and I don't want to have to go toilet too much." 

When she still met with resistance, she took Valjean's hand. "Looks like someone's cranky! Bed time for you, mister!" And with her child's strength, she pulled him upstairs. 

Just before leaving Javert's line of sight, Cosette looked back and stage whispered "Night Papa! Thank you for the milk!" 

-

Javert volunteered to drop Cosette at daycare the next morning. Valjean let him, ripping up his bread on his plate, making as if he were eating but never feeding himself. 

Once Javert packed Cosette into the car, he returned to the kitchen table, Valjean staring mutely in front of himself. 

"You'd better be-" Javert bit his tongue. "I hope that you're here when I return, Jean." 

Valjean made no indication that he had heard. Javert took a deep breath. "You should eat, and have a glass of water. You'll feel better."

Valjean made an almost imperceptible nod.

-

When Javert returned, Valjean was exactly as he had left him… though his glass and plate were empty. Javert took them to the kitchen and washed them, more to give himself a moment to think than out of any other desire. 

He returned and sat on the left side of their kitchen table, avoiding sitting directly opposite Valjean to discourage the idea that this was an interrogation. 

"I was thinking," Valjean said after a moment, "That Cosette and I should go on a trip." 

Javert noted the lack of including him in this plan, but did not allow it to show on his face. 

"Oh?" 

"I think it would be nice to spend some time together. Outside of the house."

"Okay." 

"Maybe, maybe to the sea, or to the mountains.'

"..." 

Valjean looked like he was biting his cheek to keep from crying, yet still had the nerve to direct his watery eyes at Javert. 

"You are angry with me." 

"Have you- are you…" Javert pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Javert…"

"Perhaps it is a tradition I am unaware of," Javert said, "But is not the peak of winter the worst time for a 'beach trip'? We are not in the South, Valjean, it is cold, it is windy, there is snow." 

"I'm sorry?"

"Yes, you probably will be! Is the purpose of your trip to torture yourself?"

"Of course not!" 

"Then why not find some way to treat your daughter to a holiday destination that is above freezing? Perhaps a child-friendly place; a holiday park or some other dismal tourist trap? Why 'the sea'?" 

"Because- because…" 

"Because you're not thinking properly right now?" Javert sighed. "I can understand why you would feel uncomfortable communicating your problems with me so I have not offered, but you should talk to someone. It's not healthy to keep these things bottled up, is that not what you've been teaching me?" 

"This is - it's different." 

"Different?" 

"Personal." 

"'Personal'. Hm. I see. Would you not say my fifty years of tyranny and subsequent physiological break could be called 'personal'?" 

"No, yes, of course Javert, but this is-"

"More personal than my personal vendetta against you. More personal than your _legal husband_ is qualified to deal with." Javert clicked his tongue; no, this was what he was trying to avoid. "Sorry, no, that is not the tone I wanted to use." He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts in order. 

"Valjean, you don't have to tell me anything, but I am here for you. I will listen to anything you would like to say, as monstrous as it makes you feel. You can tell me anything and trust me when I say: I will always think of you as a Saint." 

Valjean's eyes only lowered further. 

-

_Saint._

This word rattled around Valjean's brain for the next few days, echoing off the walls of his skull every time he managed to forget it. 

If Javert had proven that he cared for Valjean and Cosette, had not been deterred or pushed away by Valjean's distance, he had also swung too hard in the opposite direction. He loved Valjean… because he thought of him as a Saint. Valjean was not human, an equal, a friend, he was a martyr, an idol, part of Javert's religion. 

Christ, Valjean was an idiot. He had allowed these thoughts to grow within Javert, hoping perhaps to soften Javert to him, but now? now this smacked of manipulation. 

How could- 

_"Valjean."_

Valjean tore his hands away and held them in surrender like the thief he was -

"Christ, did you burn yourself?" 

Javert was pushing Valjean away, back from… back from the oven, from the burning pan Valjean had just been about to handle. 

He could feel the grease from the Turkey crackle against his face, still crouched as he was before the oven. 

Valjean pushed himself back, allowed Javert's hand under his elbow to help him up. 

"Finally caught you red-handed, Jean!"

Javert's hand had not left Valjean's forearm. It loosened when Valjean let the joke wash over him.

"Perhaps you should sit down?" 

Javert sounded like a man talking a jumper off a ledge. Valjean supposed he didn't blame him - Valjean knew he was acting odd, and he knew Javert well enough to know Javert would notice. 

"It's fine, Javert."

"Away with the fairies and almost dropped our dinner to boot, I'd rather not risk a gravy mishap now." There was a pause. "That was a play on words. Admittedly not my finest, but I've rarely had need to dip into food puns…" 

Javert closed his mouth. 

There was a longer silence. 

Eventually, Javert looked ready to talk again, but was interrupted by the doorbell. 

"Oh thank God," Javert said, already exiting the room and leaving Valjean to the distant thought of who could possibly be visiting their household on Christmas.

There was a burst of excited voices at the doorway, too distant to make out the words and only furthering the mystery, then the voices hushed. 

Valjean put on the oven gloves he'd forgotten the last time and rotated the Turkey in the oven, dim but this time focusing long enough not to cause grievous injury to himself. 

There was a light tapping on the doorway. Valjean turned. In the open doorway was Bishop Myriel. 

-

Javert had not 'entertained' before, let alone for an old lesbian couple, sister and sister-in-law to the Bishop who had saved his faux-husband's life. 

He wasn't exactly sure what the tone should be. They were older than him, and religious, so he knew he should aim for a tone of irreverent respect, but he also knew so little about them that he wasn't quite sure what would offend them more: distant respect or over-familiarity. The Bishop herself seemed hell-bent (or whatever the appropriately godly word would be) on eradicating formality, so should he welcome them with open arms? 

And now they had been sitting in silence for too long - should he have offered them some sort of drink, a snack? But the Bishop had Valjean cornered in the kitchen and Javert was loathe to interrupt. 

Madame Baptistine, the Bishop's sister, was taller than the Bishop, and skinnier. Her head was wrapped but did not disguise that she wore it in a severe bun, tightening her sharp features. She was dressed simply, like her sister, but did not have the tell-tale laugh lines that Myriel did. 

Madame Magloire was a round South East Asian woman, much jollier than her wife. She was looking around the living room with unrestrained curiosity. She looked as if she was making an inventory of everything she saw; her eyes the eyes of a woman who can tell how much each item costs, where it was bought, and how long ago it went out of Vogue. 

Both were dressed in their Sunday best, though it looked as if Javert had a kindred spirit in Baptistine, forced to wear an element of Holiday Spirit with a dangled pair of santa-hat earrings that twirled ever so slightly every time she moved her head to check her watch. 

Magloire was fast less self-conscious in her bright red Christmas jumper, almost as dazzling as Cosette's, whose child-sized monstrosity was both besequined and had a working light fixture. 

And, like speaking the name of the devil, Cosette bounded down the stairs, whatever important business she had had concluded. 

Watching her zap into the room only to see two strangers was like watching a deer freeze in headlights. Her usually unreserved smile disappeared completely and her body diverted instantly to hide herself behind the sofa Javert was sat in. 

"Cosette, do you want to meet some new people?" Javert craned his head over the back of the sofa to see Cosette looking at him, shaking her head. "Hmm, okay. I guess me and these really, really interesting people can finish our conversation without you." 

Javert turned back to the women, and though he didn't know them, their quirks, it seemed that they had defrosted with the interruption, just as Javert had. 

"It seems like I must apologise, Cosette isn't taking appointments today." 

"That is a shame," Baptistine said, sounding every bit like she was talking about a dental visit. 

"I suppose we'll have to return some other time with these presents, then!" Magloire was grinning, even as she molded her voice to sound woe-is-me. 

There was a flicker of movement from behind the sofa, but the little bird was not quite so easily lured. 

Magloire unzipped her large carry all, rooting around for a moment and humming. "Hmm… that's right, now this one is for Monsieur Jean… this one for Monsieur Javert, and this biiiig one was for the little Cosette, but oh well! I'm sure we can leave it under the tree and she can open it at some later date."

Magloire took the impeccably wrapped present and placed it under the laden tree, giving its bow a soft pat. 

Magloire was not yet sat down when Cosette shot from behind the couch to the present. She marvelled at it for a good, long moment before looking imploringly at Javert. 

Javert shrugged, and glanced at the two ladies. Cottage deliberated with herself for a moment, before calling out a timid "Thank you" in their direction. 

"You're quite welcome, my child," said Baptistine.

"Go on, open it, the excitement is killing me!” said her wife. 

Cosette ripped the paper, and found a box. From the box she pulled a terrarium. It was small, but still as large as her torso. "Woaah…" she said, face almost pressing against the glass. "Pretty."

"My sister, your father's, er, _friend_ , she created this world for you. You must take care of it." Baptistine turned to Javert. "The Bishop has left a sheet of notes for care."

"But don't hold your breath," Magloire continued, "Her notes are written like a spider's been dropped in ink, and they're usually as helpful as her advice is: all purple prose and the unknowing infinite of the universe." Magloire took a deep breath. "Just once I'd like to know how often I need to water the daffodils, but will she give me a solid answer? No. 'They have enough when they've had enough my dear sister.'" 

"Now, Magloire," came Baptistine's soft reprimand. 

"Yes I know, she's filled with God's infinite wisdom. Doesn't make her any less unhelpful. Would you like to be the one known forever as the one who killed the Bishop's Begonias?"

They bickered like that for a good ten minutes, not fighting, not really, but completely at ease with one another, knowing how the other would argue and thus finishing one another’s points before they could get to it. 

It reminded Javert of Valjean. Of how they could sit together for hours and disagree, but never about something important, not anymore. It would be about how much salt to put in the eggs, or the shortest route to the store. It would be about Valjean wearing that ridiculous patchy coat when he went to pick Cosette up from daycare even though he knew all the other parents gossiped about it and its ghastly colour. It would be about who did the laundry now that they lived together, about whether they did one big load or three smaller ones. It was about Valjean’s inability to comprehend that socks should be paired, and that no, Cosette’s tiny, glittery socks did not belong in Javert’s closet just as his did not belong in hers. It was about cooking decent, nutritional meals not because either of them did so for themselves, but because they wanted Cosette to know what it was to grow up healthy. Happy. Cared for. 

It was about love. 

_I do love him. Quite a lot._

_Ah._

_Well, that explains several things at least._

_Hm._

_But now we’re married, it would be rather inconvenient to inform Valjean._

_He might perhaps feel like I have used him, or disabused his trust._

Javert contemplated these women in silence. Eventually their good-natured feud settled down to find Javert watching them. They looked at each other, smiled, looked at Javert. 

“How did you know?” Javert asked.

Magloire’s smile turned into a grin. “She knew right away. I had to be convinced.”

That surprised Javert. He had assumed the uptight Baptistine would be the one so indentured by her religion that this decision would have taken years, decades to mull upon. 

“My sister is a Bishop,” Baptistine said, taking Magloire’s hand. “who speaks about God’s love above all else. God’s compassion, God’s will. My sister often sees a world I cannot see: a world where criminality cannot affect her, a world where violence does not exist. Sometimes I struggle to understand her. Academically, I too wish to welcome all into my home, and I do, but not without fear. When I first met Magloire, it was the first time in my life I did not want to come to a decision because of my sister. I looked at this woman, and I knew that I wanted to share my life with her. I knew I would be damned if I let my sister make that call for me. 

“I am a creature of faith, Monsieur Javert. God speaks through my sister, and where my sister wills I act. If my sister had looked upon Magloire unfavourably, I am not certain what I might have done. Lived my life under her will, or excommunicating myself from the fold. I hope I would have chosen love; God’s love. Thankfully, I was not put in that position. My sister has worked tirelessly to make my wife and my lives as free from trauma as possible.” 

Baptistine laughed to herself at some small private joke, then inclined her head in Magloire’s direction. “Whereas this one wanted assurance that, were we to get married, she would at least be allowed to replace our plates, bowls, curtains and cutlery.”

“And the linens! By God, Monsieur Javert, can you imagine a Bishop and her beautiful, divine sister living in a one bedroom flat, a couple of wooden bowls and some ragged curtains between them? The Bishop, sleeping on a pull-out couch wrapped in a blanket more holy than Godly! I always say to them, it’s admirable, of course, not saving anything for themselves, budgeting so tightly to hand as much as possible to those in need, but taking care of others starts with caring for yourself! You can’t go out and fight bandits on a mountain on donkey back when all you’ve eaten is a crust of bread dipped in some milk!” 

Javert wondered, briefly, which section of the Bible that particular metaphor came from. 

“Anyway,” Magloire said, brief rant over, “I love love. I love to see it, and I do see it, every day I’m in that house with them. I love my wife because she is her, even when - no, especially when she wears this ridiculous headwrap that clashes with her skirt and when I have to force her to wear festive earrings. I love my sister-in-law because she is a Bishop who loves her flock. I love Monsieur Jean, and I am proud of him for being who he is now. I’m sure once I know you better, I will know what to love you for too, Monsieur Javert!” Magloire smiled her beaming smile over at Cosette, still rapt in her present. “And I love that little mite because she’s so darn adorable!” 

Javert felt himself in shock. Not because he had never heard some hippy or another say these exact words before, but because he believed it. More than that, he related to it. He found himself nodding along, feeling these feelings for himself, for Valjean. 

“You love Jean Valjean,” Baptistine said, not quite a question, but not quite a statement, either. 

“Not- not in the way that you love your wife.”

“I should hope not!” Magloire laughed.

“Love isn’t just a glance and a beating heart, Javert,” Baptistine continued. “It’s a conversation. The phrase ‘to love’ is so simple, don’t you think? But would you say the same of loving God? Of loving _food_? Love is complex, and it takes thought, and it takes negotiation.” 

“But he’s not… we’re not actually-”

“Oh, don’t you think I don’t know that? You think Jean Valjean, _our_ Jean Valjean would marry the man he loves, really loves, in some courtroom far away from the Bishop, not letting her do your rights before God? Absolutely not. No, she knows you have your reasons, and my sister keenly awaits the day you choose to ask for her services.”

Javert’s eyes squinted in their involuntary state of not-wanting-to-admit-someone-else-is-right-but-knowing-they-were. 

“Oh, she’s opened it!”

The Bishop had entered the room behind them, Valjean in tow. Javert watched the Bishop make a fast friend out of Cosette, crouching beside the girl to explain to her what each plant and stone was, pointing out the favourite parts of her creation. 

Javert watched them so that he could not think about Jean Valjean, perching on the sofa beside Javert; the closest they had been for a few weeks now. 

He smelled of the roasting meal, warm and spiced and herby. 

He smelled nice. Felt nice too, a comfortable warm to Javert's side despite the central heating and the oven warmth. It was already easy to sink into it, the smell, the warmth, the touch. And, if Javert wasn't reading too much into it, the less tense he was the less tense Jean was against him. 

-

Dinner was… not how Jean Valjean had assumed it would go down. 

The Bishop's appearance, her enlightening talk, they were welcome gifts, of course, and were the catalysts for Jean's calm, but what was truly magical was the strange and seemingly instant friendship Javert had fostered with Baptistine and Magloire. 

For a group of strangers to go from bristled to friendly in just over a half hour was hard to imagine for a standard array of humans, but it was almost impossible to comprehend in this disjointed configuration. 

And yet, Valjean had emerged from the kitchen to see Javert entertaining his guests flawlessly, and there wasn't a single stunted conversation all evening. 

The Bishop was a natural conversationalist of course, but Javert! Javert looked transfigured. He listened, he laughed, he continued through conversations. 

Jean Valjean could hardly prevent himself from grinning every time Javert so much as smiled without reserve, let alone laugh like he actually meant it, so he didn't try. Valjean let himself enjoy himself, and in turn he noticed in real time both Javert and Cosette's moods visibly brighten. 

Seeing Cosette cast away her fear around these strange people, open up to them, show them her action figures and the miniature guillotine she'd built from Lego, had been the one to hug them goodbye without instruction or duress. 

Valjean had not considered that. That in preventing his own happiness, the people he sacrificed himself for might suffer, might care about him so much that they could never truly be happy when they knew he starved himself: physically, emotionally, in every way. 

Laughing freely was like watering plants: his family soaked it up, were nourished by it. It was… delightful. 

And Javert… Javert paid attention to Valjean too. Careful touch, painfully casual inside jokes, and looks! looks with so much meaning in them, meaning Valjean could only dream of interpreting fully. He thought maybe he saw joy, and hope, and love… love in many of its forms. 

He also saw care and reservation, and he saw fear. And with the Bishop sat directly opposite him at the table, it was growing harder and harder not to grow embarrassed at _her_ meaningful looks too, side-eyes and cheeky grins that would have been devilish on any other human. 

They had decided not to drink, so Valjean could only really blame the holiday spirit for his giddiness, gradually leaning into Javert's touches, then it becoming so natural he didn't even notice he was doing it.

While the guests left and the table was cleared, Jean bathed and bedded Cosette and came down to help Javert wash what dishes were left. Javert ran a strict ship and usually washed as they went along, but with the Bishop's arrival they had had unexpectedly little time to do so. 

There was something so comforting, doing chores together in a perfect silence. Side by side, happy to exist together in the same space. Javert had become far less micromanagerial in the last few months too, no longer feeling the need to criticise Valjean's each movement. 

Today Valjean dried as Javert washed. Javert was obviously in a good mood as the plates weren't getting a harsh scrubbing as they sometimes did. 

"I realise this might sound out of the blue, Jean." Javert slotted a plate into the drying rack, face giving away no clue as to what his next words might possibly be. "I believe that I love you. I have not quite worked out the full extent to which my feelings extend, but I wanted to give you an advance warning."

"Advance… warning?"

"Yes. Of my intentions." Another plate on the drying rack. "Towards you." 

"You wanted to warn me before you … flirted with me?" 

"Flirted… courted… whatever you'd like to call it. I figure that you might as well know what I was doing since I have no clue what my plan is to be, and I would be loathe to push you away because of my sudden change in behaviour." 

"That's…"

"Unless of course this makes you uncomfortable, or you are uninterested. In which case, now you know and I shall divert my feelings to those of friendship, as they had been until very recently." 

"I-" There was a long pause. "I love you too." Valjean said it to the tea towel he was using to dry the dishes, softly but not without conviction. 

He looked up and he met Javert's gaze. They smiled; a matching expression of understanding. So it had been a long week for Javert too. 

Valjean wanted to touch Javert, but since both of their hands were occupied by soap and dishes, Valjean settled with touching his shoulder against Javert's. 

"So to be clear," Javert said after a long moment, "Does this mean I'm free from having to flirt with you?" 

"I would say that I would love to see you try, but I'm not entirely sure that that would be the truth."

"I'm almost certain that it would cause us an equivalent amount of pain." Javert, finishing up now, dried his hands. "The Bishop?" 

"Yes, she was rather… direct. Magloire and Baptistine?" 

"Oh yes. They were very convincing. Achieved an impressive amount in such a short time, really."

"They really did a number on us, huh."

"Co-ordinated plans of attack. Commendable, even using my own plan against me so that I didn't cotton on sooner." 

Javert mused on this a while longer, analysing the sisters' intentions, comparing notes with Valjean about who the mastermind might be. They had made it back to the sofa, TV on, sat on each end but with legs curled up together before either realised they had got there on muscle memory alone. 

Again, they shared that same look… then burst out laughing. Valjean could not believe he'd acted like such a paranoid fool, trying to avoid Javert, thinking he might want to move out! God only knew what Javert had attempted in the lead up to his own revelation. 

It was all so silly because now it seemed so simple. They would care about each other, protect each other, make each other laugh. Nothing less than usual, just with something more on top.

Valjean realised that, for the first time in his life, he was genuinely excited for tomorrow. Not looking back, not surviving in the moment, living for himself, for his own happiness. 

They sat like that for the rest of the evening, loving and feeling loved. Safe, happy and home.

  
  



End file.
